


I Can't Seem To Find Myself

by ThereIsNoTragedyInThat



Series: Somewhere Between Kansas and the Open Road [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Oneshot, Protective Dean Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Whumptober, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26749336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereIsNoTragedyInThat/pseuds/ThereIsNoTragedyInThat
Summary: The motel room was quiet, not silent, no not with cars rushing past on the highway just outside its fragile walls, not with transports making the cheap paintings shake and tremble. But it was private, tucked away in the backwoods, a building that was decrepit and barely on its last legs…abandoned.It was almost as though it were built for this purpose.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Somewhere Between Kansas and the Open Road [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698406
Comments: 4
Kudos: 70
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	I Can't Seem To Find Myself

**Author's Note:**

> informally participating in Whumptober. It won't be every day, just when I have a second.
> 
> Prompt: Hanging

The motel room was quiet, not silent, no not with cars rushing past on the highway just outside its fragile walls, not with transports making the cheap paintings shake and tremble. But it was private, tucked away in the backwoods, a building that was decrepit and barely on its last legs…abandoned almost.

It was almost as though it were built for this purpose.

Sam had been staring at a stain on the carpet. Beneath him the bed was lumpy, and he hadn’t dared take off his shoes, his hair was greasy from too many days on the road and there were a million things he should be doing. Answering his phone was one of them, he’d lost track of how many times his brother had called. Part of him wished the battery would just die already because he didn’t have it in him to turn it off.

He should take a shower. Wash the grime from his skin and the blood from his most recent failure, watch it circle down the drain like he always did, let the scalding water force out the voice in his head.

His guns too, they needed cleaning and the knife. Dean would be pissed if he saw them shoved in the bottom of his bag, crusting over and dulling the metal. That thought was almost enough to make him move, almost.

But that stain.

The carpet was a gaudy shade of pinkish brown and Sam couldn’t quite figure out how much of it was the original colour and how much was the years of people trotting across it with dirt filled boots. He had even spotted a couple of burn marks, smokers that had flicked the ashes away without a care in the world, the walls yellowing from the sheer number of them.

The stain.

Right.

It sat there almost innocently, darker at the center and lighter around the edges like someone had feverishly tried to clean it and only succeed on the area around it. Sam couldn’t help but noticed that it was awfully small, almost like someone had tried to prevent a mess but didn’t quite line things up right.

Sam wondered if it was a coincidence, ending up here, staring at this stain after the case they’d been on. A string of unwilling suicides, a witch, and failure after god damn failure, face after face. They were supposed to be better than that, they were supposed to be able to save these people, not watch them slip away.

There was a part of him that thought he should be angry about that, maybe even enraged…Dean certainly had been. All he felt was empty, like something vital had slipped from his fingers, the thing that would flip the switch and turn on his fight.

He had nothing.

Just this stain.

Sam had never understood why people chose the gun to end it. Sure, it was probably less painful if you did it right but the mess…that was just cruel to inflict on somebody, even the grubby, old man at the check in desk.

Then again, Sam wasn’t afraid of pain. Not after everything he’d endured. It wasn’t fair to expect everyone to be like that.

His eyes drifted to the side, taking in the sight of the belt and the rope sitting next to him. He couldn’t remember how or when he’d gotten them, probably stopped somewhere on the way here. It had felt like a long drive.

It didn’t matter.

Sam eyed the ceiling fan, doubtful that it could take his weight. The ceiling was already cracking with water damage and part of the structure looked like it was ready to cave in at the slightest provocation. Then again, the angle of the fan, the way it was twisted…made Sam think he wasn’t the first to try it.

If it worked for them it should work for him.

For a split second, when he stood and cracked his neck from side to side, Sam felt something stir inside him. The sensation was all together unpleasant, making his stomach curl and a strange wave helplessness to wash through him. He found himself standing in the middle of the room for a long, long moment, until his eyes drifted back to the stain at his feet.

Oh.

Right.

He had just taken the rope into his hand, carefully tying a knot, the one he’d been taught as a child with his father’s shrewd eyes watching his every move, when the door to the motel slammed open with startling force. Sam didn’t go for his gun like he normally would, it didn’t seem right for some reason.

All he did was turn toward the sound and stare in surprise as his brother stepped into the room, his bright green eyes filled with the kind of intensity and anger he wished he could feel right now. There was a moment of silence as they took each other in, Sam unsure how this would affect his plans, and Dean’s expression twisting.

The silence was broken with Dean’s growl of “son of bitch,” as he strode across the room and yanked the rope from Sam’s hand. He was abruptly pulled harshly into Dean’s arms, his hand unyielding where it had clamped on the back of his head and all Sam felt was confused.

When his brother finally pulled away, he pointed a stern finger at him, “don’t you dare move. You reach for that gun I will knock you out.”

Sam hadn’t even realized he was looking at it, let alone reaching. Dean swung around and grabbed the bag Sam had abandoned the moment he stepped into the room and watched as his brother began tossing things out onto the floor. After several minutes, Dean’s constant cursing, and half a dozen weary glances being shot his way, he pulled something out of the bag. When he held it up, Sam realized it was a hex bag, a messy one at that but he found he still didn’t really care.

Without any fanfare, Dean took out his lighter and set it ablaze. It was dropped on the small table by the window and they both watched as it turned to ash, not even getting hot enough to catch on the polished wood.

Abruptly, Sam felt his knees go weak as they gave out beneath him, leaving him to tumble to his knees. With the force of a tidal wave, Sam realized what he was about to do, saw the rope on the floor, almost curled around that brown stain and he nearly puked, his mind rebelling against what the witch had almost done to him.

Dean was there, hands firm on his shoulders, speaking to him in a low, soothing voice, trying to get his attention. Sam felt his eyes begin to sting and he didn’t resist when he was pulled back into his brother’s arms.

“If I hadn’t already killed her,” Dean was saying into his ear. “I’d be making that bitch pay.”

The relief that she was dead, was overshadowed only by the relief that he was alive, “get me out of here.”

Dean didn’t need any more prompting, he gripped Sam by the arm and pulled him toward the door. The impala sat in the parking lot next to the old truck Sam had stolen, almost like a sanctuary, a refuge, a promise that they’d get far far far away from here.

“You’ll be alright,” Dean murmured as he lowered him into the passenger seat.

Sam closed his eyes and willed it to be true.


End file.
